


Fire for a Soul

by chrysanthemumsies



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Coming of Age, Dragons, Elf Sherlock, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy, Human John, John is a Saint, M/M, Magic, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Romance, Slow Burn, well sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthemumsies/pseuds/chrysanthemumsies
Summary: Or, how John Watson of Skyrim learned that he did not have one. 
.
AU of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes in the Skyrim universe. There will be magnificent beasts, mystical places, daring adventures, civil wars, and vague references to canon. Probably one of the most AU-ist AUs of Sherlock there is, but I won’t judge if you don’t. Eventually a romance (because is there even a universe where these two men aren’t meant for each other?).
* Begins with Sherlock as 13, and John as 20. Nothing sexual happens until Sherlock is of age.** Believe it or not, I have an actual plotline in mind. This isn’t JUST crack.*** May the Gods have mercy on our souls.





	1. An Introduction

First off, hello and welcome! This is going to be a long ride, so I only thought it fair to give a little intro for some background information. Keep in mind, a lot of this can be embellished in further detail on google, I’m just dropping the basics. 

Without further adieu:

 

  1. First off, this is a fic with Sherlock characters in the Skyrim universe, not the other way around. That would be weird and just unpleasant. 
  2. **Skyrim** is a province located in a continent by the name of **Tamriel**. The planet this is located on is named **Nirn**. There are nine provinces in Tamriel, with ten species, one for each province. The exception are the **orcs** , who don’t have a province. 
  3. There is a following of gods called the **Aedra** and **Daedra**. The Aedra are the eight (arguably nine) gods (named the **Eight (Nine) Divines** ) that gave up their immortality to create Nirn, as well as the mortal plane itself. The Daedra are those who didn’t want any part in creating humanity, and as such they retain their immortality. Some Daedra enjoy meddling in the affairs of humans anyway.
  4. There are two big ‘wars’ going on when this fic begins. One inside Skyrim itself, and one throughout Tamriel. I will go into detail with the latter first. 
  5. **The Empire** used to be the huge governing force across Tamriel, based in the province of **Cyrodiil** which holds the **imperial race**. Recently, it’s been driven out of several provinces, and a new ruling power is beginning to rise. 
  6. Based in the island of **Sumerset Isles** , holding the species of **high elves** , is the group called the **Aldmeri Dominion**. Knowing that its defeat was on the horizon, the Empire struck up a contract with the Aldmeri Dominion to soothe hostilities. 
  7. This treaty is called the **White-Gold Concordat** , and is in favor of the elves’ side more than anything. It gives them the power to enter any of the Empire’s land and prosecute anyone who worships the god **Talos**. 
  8. **Talos** is one of the Nine Divines, and he is also a very controversial figure. He is a nordic god, meaning that he is only seen as a god by the **nordic people** (nords are the people of Skyrim). He used to be an emperor by the name of **Tiber Septim** , and because of his esteemed war efforts and achievements, he was given godship upon his death. Only nords truly believe him to be a **Divine**. That’s why there will be Eight or Nine Divines, depending on who is spoken to. 
  9. Meanwhile, there is a civil war going on within Skyrim itself. There is the **Imperial Legion** , who side with the Empire and cannot fight against their making of the White-Gold Concordat. 
  10. The **Stormcloaks** are the rebelling group that believe that Skyrim is for the nords, not the high elves. They attempt to drive out different species from the province, and want the Empire to take back Tamriel instead of letting the Dominion continue to invade.
  11. And lastly, throughout all of this, there is the **Dragon Crisis**. Long-dead creatures of magic greater than any mortal, the dragons are rising from their graves with only one goal in mind: to enslave humanity. Leading this all is the dragon named **Alduin** , who is prophesized to be the **Eater of Worlds**. If you’ve played Skyrim before, you know why the dragons are waking, but if you don’t play then I’ll leave that as a little surprise.



 

So that’s basically it for the run-down! Like I said, google is very helpful if anything doesn’t make sense, or if you want to learn about the world more in-depth. Skyrim has such a beautiful and detailed world, akin to that of Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones, so I decided to express my love for it in the only way I know how: writing about Sherlock and John doing The Gay Stuff in it. 

Throughout the story, I may be using some unfamiliar terms. I’ll underline every Skyrim-related term, and add a note at the bottom with a quick definition. Usually it’ll be obvious from context clues, but it’s only fair to save you the google and just throw in the meanings conveniently. 

I decided to write this story because I find myself linking Sherlock with any and all of my obsessions. On my account, you’ll see that I’ve already started on a Twilight AU of the show, as well as a space-exploration one (as I’m a sucker for science fiction). So, I figured, why not Skyrim? Like the summary says, there is ACTUALLY a plotline in mind, while the AU itself might seem a bit crack!fic. Which is true, in a sense, but I hope there’s enough angst and romance and adventure (and eventually smut) to keep you guys interested!

Thanks for the read, and do not hesitate to comment on this chapter any questions/concerns, I’ll be happy to reply and, if need be, edit the facts I’ve given. I’m all about informing you about this wonderful universe, as well as creating some slow burn Johnlock along the way.

 

May the Divines guide you!

chrysanthemumsies


	2. J - HAMMERFELL

John awoke with a sneeze. The ceiling above him was specked with mold in the dim light, and the ground beneath him was laid with hay. The whole room was built with stone, and it seemed as though every square inch was covered with grime. John wrinkled his nose as he sat up.

Where was he, anyway? Oh, dungeon. Yes. Right.

And he wasn’t alone, apparently.

“Hello,” he greeted lightheartedly to the bundle in the next cell, still blinking away the vestiges of sleep. John stood up and stretched away the stiffness, whistling through his teeth at the relief. “D’you know if it’s morning?”

A sniffle. The bundle rearranged itself, but didn’t turn around. It was a terribly small bundle, John noticed, sharp shoulder blades jutting at the fabric that faced him. John pursed his lips at the sight. He straightened the similar burlap clothes he was given awkwardly, feeling naked without his sword or even his less-used bow, and began to think about how he was going to get out of this situation. He still felt the magicka in his veins just in case a dire situation arose, but he wasn’t much for sorcery regardless. He stepped closer to the bars that divided him and the other prisoner.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands loosely gripping the rails. “We’ll be fine. If they wanted either of us dead, they would’ve done so already.” He hoped he sounded reassuring.

A throat was cleared. “I know that,” the bundle spoke in a fine voice, lilting and higher in pitch than John’s but, thankfully, quite obviously male. A young boy, even. John could get uncomfortable around the fairer sex, feeling oddly clunky and dumb in his interactions, so this might be easy. Hopefully.

“Okay, good. So - er, can I have a name?”

There was a quiet pause, and then the bundle began to unfold itself and stood with an odd gracefulness. Shaky and unsure, but smooth in movement. The boy stepped closer towards John, but understandably kept further than an arms’ width from the bars. He was an elf, John noticed, with delicately defined features and cat-like eyes nearly the same color as his fair skin, though red-rimmed from crying. The pale shade was thrown into contrast by shortly-sheared dark hair, almost the same length as John’s but volumed by its curls. Everything about his body language was defensive. “Sherlock,” the elf said, voice cracking. “My name is Sherlock. And yours?”

He was speaking more, though that last part was bitten out. Regardless, that was a good sign, right? “My name is John Watson,” John said, and he peaked behind Sherlock to the main part of the dungeon. There didn’t seem to be any other prisoners. There was a guard, but he was snoring at his post, propped up beside the door. “Okay Sherlock, you’re going to help us escape.”

The boy’s eyes widened impossibly. He had not been expecting that. “Escape? Would you like to live the rest of your life as a wanted criminal?”

John rolled his eyes. “Do you have any idea where we are?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, seemingly offended, and John decided that he liked him. “We are in the province of Hammerfell, the home of the Redguard race. We are near the northern city of Dragonstar, at the foot of the Dragontail mountains that divide us from both the province of High Rock and that of Skyrim. I don’t see how our location negates the consequences of crime.”

“You’ve a bright mind,” John mused, impressed. “How old are you?”

Sherlock held himself up taller, even though he was shorter than even John’s own insignificant height. “Nearly fourteen,” Sherlock stated in a deeper voice. John quirked his lips.

“Thirteen, then.” He continued on when he saw the boy prepare to respond. “ _Anyway,_ Sherlock, while you are correct, we are currently _specifically_ enclosed inside of a bandit camp just outside the city. Lucky for me, though, I was caught stealing gold.”

“How is that in any way lucky?”

John leaned further against the bars with an easy smile. “If I had been caught stealing within actual Dragonstar, I would immediately have been killed. It’s a marvel this bandit outpost hasn’t been destroyed by the military yet, honestly. Must be fairly new.”

The guard at the door gave a halted snore, but after a beat of silence, fell back to sleep once again. John hushed his voice slightly. “They have already stolen our things, and I’m positive that we’re only alive because they believe we may be of use to them. I really don’t want to see what that use is, for either of us.” John tilted his head pointedly to the doorway. “Ergo, we escape.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, brows sharp and cautious. “It’s a gamble,” he stated.

John nodded with a hum.

The boy looked over his shoulder to the same guard, and then back to John. “I’ll help,” he said with the beginnings of a smile on his face. “We’ll have to head north, through the mountains. I know a route. Further south puts us back into some dangerous areas, and I am loathe to venture through that again. While I’d prefer to avoid it, it seems as though our safest destination is Skyrim.”

“So, we’re traveling together?” John asked.

Sherlock seemed to close himself in further, defenses sliding back into place. “Or not, I don’t care. I just thought you’d prefer not getting yourself killed.”

A boy, an elf in unfamiliar territory. He was fleeing from something, and John could understand that all too well. “Do you have a family?” John asked. It was a dumb question, John was sure, but it had to be asked.

Sherlock blinked, slowly. He kept his face clear, but his eyes betrayed his vulnerability. “No,” he stated simply.

John gave one sharp nod. “Then we go to Skyrim.”

 

*** * ***

 

“This is,” John panted, a grin plastered to his face, “the most insane thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock, despite his shorter height, easily kept up with John’s run. His boyish cheeks were dimpled with his own smile. “And you stole gold from a bandit camp!”

Shouts were still behind them, though more distant than before. John upped his speed, and patted the pocket of his stolen uniform. “Twice!”

A tinkling laugh behind him, which John joined in with his breathless own. They didn’t slow until they made it to the start of the forest, the dark pines untouched and wild in their growth. Before entering, John saw that the treeline ran until it fogged and blurred into the beginnings of the great mountains in the north. The peaks seemed fathoms away.

Deep until the afternoon sun was shaded through the lush cover, John and Sherlock finally collapsed in a heap on the rough ground. Around them was only the sound of wildlife and (thankfully) not of man-made steps. John’s heart was hammering in his chest, but he turned his head to smile at the gasping boy beside him. “That was fun, yeah?”

Sherlock huffed out an incredulous laugh, his short curls plastered to his scalp from sweat. John hadn’t noticed in the dinge of the dungeon, but the boy had an almost golden hue to his fair skin, causing his pale eyes to seem almost pea-green. He was a beautiful child. “We have different definitions of fun,” he managed, though his grin betrayed him. He sat up and propped his back against the trunk of a great pine. His tunic was disheveled against his skin, and he seemed to notice, picking at the starched fabric with a frown. “I only wish we were able to grab our things before escaping.”

John twisted his lips as well, missing the familiarity of his greatsword at his hip. “Right,” he agreed. He blinked up at the sky, or whatever he could see of it. “So, then. What now?”

When he glanced over, Sherlock was watching him with wide eyes, as if the question was completely unprecedented. It might as well be. He shrugged with a jerk of his shoulders.

“No, no, none of that,” John groaned. He would have to remember that he was dealing with a child, not of a man akin to his own age. “You told me you know a route to Skyrim, and I helped you escape. From hereon, at least until we reach familiar waters, you have the reigns on this journey.”

Sherlock swallowed visibly. But then he narrowed his eyes in an unnerving move, tilting his head slightly. “Why are you wanting to go to Skyrim? You’ve never been there before.”

John pushed himself up, trying to level that peculiar stare with his own. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, but kept his eyes trained. “Obvious. Your accent is sharply Cyrodiilian in nature, but you are a nord, your homeland being Skyrim. The only way into the bandit outpost with relative discretion is from the south, the complete opposite direction of Skyrim itself. Dragonstar is the northeasternmost part of Hammerfell, meaning that you were only passing through with a destination already in mind. But why would you go such a difficult route when there is a perfectly usable path into Skyrim at Pale Pass?“ He then snapped his fingers, epiphany alighting behind his eyes. “Wanted! You’re a criminal in Cyrodiil so you’re fleeing to Skyrim, possibly because you have family there but mostly to escape your persecution in the Imperial country. I should have known from the fact that you stole gold.”

John’s mouth was open, he noticed, so he closed it with relative difficulty. How…? “That was… brilliant!”

Sherlock was watching him already, but at that his eyelashes fluttered and the beginnings of color rose to his cheeks. “It is?”

“Yes!” John exclaimed incredulously, leaning further across his folded legs with an open-mouthed smile. “However did you do that? That was absolutely stunning, and right on the nose.” There were a few notable facts lacking from his words, but John was hardly going to add to them. There were some things he needed to keep to himself, he thought.

“I just… observe,” Sherlock said hesitantly, curling his knees up to his chest. “I also see that you dislike stealing, though I don’t understand exactly why. And that you have another reason for wanting to go into Skyrim, but I don’t have enough information to place that reason. I can’t see _everything._ ” He ruffled his damp curls with his fingers, pursing his lips as though the declaration bothered him. So maybe this boy _did_ know the ‘notable facts’, though not fully. “Why did you help me?”

John smiled sadly, watching this vulnerable boy act as though basic compassion was alien to him. “The same reason I dislike stealing,” he said quietly. “There is a right thing to do, and a wrong thing to do. Sometimes, no matter how deep into the wrong you fall, you need to do the right for once.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, impossibly guarded yet obvious in his wariness. “I don’t know what to do from now,” the boy nearly whispered. “I don’t know how accurate the route I know into Skyrim is.”

John tried to give as reassuring of a smile as he could. “We’ll try it, then. I may not ‘observe’ as well as you, but you have to get into Skyrim too, don’t you? To already know a route.” Sherlock’s lips tightened, but John continued. “How long will it take?”

“At the very least a month,” Sherlock responded immediately. “It should only take a week to reach the mountains, at the most, but until then is a relentless climb.”

John nodded and pushed to his feet, the great pine beside him acting as support. He held out a hand to Sherlock across from him, but the boy scrambled up to his feet himself. John dropped his hand. “Well,” he began. “Looks as though we have an adventure ahead of us, so we should probably put together whatever supplies we can make. And food, we’ll need to see what we can catch. Without any weapons, though, I don’t know how we’ll manage.”

Sherlock’s face brightened, and he suddenly jutted out his hand. In his palm arose a flame, hot and orange but obviously restrained. John quirked his brow; the magicka in him was incredibly strong. John himself could only manage a spark. And then he remembered that Sherlock was a high elf, the species most gifted in the arcane arts. This journey should be fun, John thought with only a small semblance of reluctance.

“I think I can help,” Sherlock said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magicka - Pretty self-explanatory. Every race in Tamriel has 'magicka', though the power depends on both the race and/or the skillset of the person.  
> Pale Pass - The point of entry between Cyrodiil and Skyrim.  
> Imperial country - Just another phrase for the province of 'Cyrodiil', because Cyrodiil is the home to the Imperial army. 
> 
> If anything else sounds confusing, ask me in the comments and I'll add the definition here! Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you're interested :-)
> 
> Follow my tumblr [@chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) for all things Johnlock!


	3. S - DRAGON'S BREATH

Sherlock didn’t make a habit of trusting thieves in dungeons, you understand.

Unlike John, Sherlock had done nothing more than _walk_ through the bandit camp before being captured. He hadn’t realized it was even there, the outpost not being marked in the great map of Tamriel he had memorized. No magic was able to stop the brutish Redguards from locking steel around his wrists and stealing all of his things.

Now, with the help of a Nord with a kind smile and mysteriously alluring backstory, they had escaped and were headed into a land not very welcoming for elves, especially the  Altmer of Sherlock’s race. John didn’t seem to mind the company, despite the animosity he held towards the Dominion (obvious; being both an Imperialist and a Nord left one with little else to go with). If mother could see him now…

Oh. Right. She’d be rolling in her grave. With a thick swallow, Sherlock ignored that train of thought and continued tying off the leather despite his bleeding fingers. “Finished,” he announced with a sigh, setting the fur-lined boots off to the side for John to find. He had made his own already; if they were to be hiking, the burlap wraps around their feet would not be able to do them any favors.

John whistled when he arrived, dropping the two fresh rabbits he was able to catch onto the floor. They were slightly scorched from Sherlock alighting their burrows on fire, but the true source of their death seemed to be a snap to the neck. John’s face was open and warm, skin tanned and hair a bright, calming gold. “These are wonderful,” he praised, immediately picking up the boots and pulling at them to test their strength. “We’ve only found this hut a few hours ago, how did you work so fast?”

Sherlock felt himself flush at the compliment. After fleeing the bandit camp and into the great forest, after only an hour or so of walking they happened upon a small, one-roomed house falling apart from its weathering and disuse. It was cramped and bedless, only equipped with a lone desk beneath the window and a fairly intact wardrobe opposite of it. Long-abandoned, it at least had some spare leather and fur, along with a dagger, an empty satchel and a few books. Unfortunately, the pages were ruined by past rain.

“It’s easy enough, once you know how,” Sherlock replied (he hoped) casually, slipping on his own and kicking his heels against the floor. He would blister, definitely, but eventually the boots would be like a second skin with wear. “I only know how to make boots, though, after watching my housecarl do the same. I’ve no idea how to craft clothing or any sort of armor.”

John waved that away, setting his new footwear off beside the open doorway of the hut. Inside, he used the new dagger to skin the rabbits. “I’ve lived in the woods on my own before,” he commented lightly. “As long as you point us where to go, I can take care of our more basic needs.”

And wasn’t _that_ interesting? John screamed of military, all straight-cut and morality, which made his stealing and experience in the wild all the more intriguing. Sherlock desperately wanted to say that out loud and ask after him, like water boiling to the surface with increasing heat. _‘Stop deducing,’_ the voice of his brother suddenly rang in his head. _‘It only makes others uncomfortable’._

Sherlock swallowed down the powerful urge, and instead: “Toss me those pelts. It’ll get colder the further north we travel, and I’d rather we keep our fingers.”

John huffed out a laugh, radiating a natural familiarity Sherlock wished he was able to achieve himself. When John handed him the pelts, though, his good humor dropped and he instead reached to hold Sherlock’s hands. “Speak for yourself,” he muttered, studying Sherlock’s bloodied fingertips. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘working yourself to the bone’?”

Sherlock swallowed at the contact, and after a moment jerked his hands away. “It’s nothing,” he said truthfully. John’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he seemed more sad than angry. Sherlock hardly knew the man, so why was he finding himself hating that expression on John’s face? “No, look,” Sherlock said insistently, holding out his hands and reaching for the familiar pulse in his blood. A light flash of gold, and the wounds were healed.

“Restoration,” John muttered, almost to himself, but his face was open once again. “I’ve never mastered it myself, but it’s good to know that you can heal yourself when need be.” His kind blue eyes trained on Sherlock’s, and he reached out a hand as if to feel his forehead. Checking himself, though, John let his hand drop before making contact. “You’re such a little thing, and I know magicka can be draining. How do you feel?”

A little lightheaded, but Sherlock didn’t really find himself wanting to admit that. “It’s superficial,” he said simply, pulling one of the pelts into his lap and tearing it in half. He worked with thin leather strips to fold one half into a mitten. “You should see if one of the other burrows smoked out any more rabbits,” he said, careful this time about pricking himself with the makeshift needle made of bone. “Whenever we make it to the mountainside, any potential food will be scarce. We can try making some jerky until then so it’ll keep.”

Things were uncomfortable between the newly-made pair, Sherlock knew. Both of them had secrets they were unwilling to share, yet both were still curious about the other. Boundaries were still hard to define. Of course, they had only truly ‘known’ each other arriving on four hours; with time, Sherlock was sure they could work together. If he could keep himself from scaring this one off, that is.

He tended to do that a lot.

“Good idea,” John said, standing and brushing the dirt off of his tattered pants. “I’m thinking we get a good night’s sleep here under shelter before starting our trek. I doubt we’ll come across another man-made thing for quite some time, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded his agreement. John grabbed his new boots and slid them onto his feet, scuffing them against the floor to get them on firmly over his footwraps. When he ducked back out into the evening air, flashing a smile through the open window before heading towards a smoking burrow, Sherlock found himself frowning thoughtfully after him.

He didn’t quite trust this ‘John Watson’. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t befriend him, did it?

 

*** * ***

 

Hours turned into days. There seemed to be no predators keen on eating man nor mer in the woods, but they were just at the surface. Sherlock had taken to calling the lush land they roamed ‘Dragon’s Breath’, as the pines all around grew a deep black as if scorched by wildfire. On the third day, John urged Sherlock to climb up one of the more larger pines to see the progress they’d made.

“What?” Sherlock croaked incredulously, arms folding in on himself in the morning chill. He was, possibly, the least coordinated Altmer there was. It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen on his face more times than he had during their brief acquaintance. “I’ve never climbed a tree before!”

“Really?” John asked, curiosity alighting behind his eyes, before schooling himself with a shake of his head. “Nevermind. I would do it myself, but the branches don’t look strong enough to support my weight.” He rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s offense. “No, don’t look at me that way! You have to be, what, a hundred pounds damp? You’ll be perfectly fine, unlike my big clunky self.”

Sherlock bit at his lip, fear knotting in his stomach. “Will you stay right below me? In case I fall?”

“You won’t fall,” John said firmly, shrugging off the satchel and dropping it off to the side. “And yes, I’ll be right here just in case something goes wrong. Which I _doubt.”_

At least one of them had faith in Sherlock’s climbing ability.

“Fine,” he groaned, tossing his makeshift mittens on top of the small pile they made. The lowest branch was twice his height, though, so he side-eyed John warily. “I’ll need a lift.”

It took a moment for John to spur into action. “Yes, right!” He then hesitated, hands slightly raised up. “Can I…?”

Sherlock scoffed lightly, bracing his hand on John’s shoulder and lifting up his leg pointedly. John quirked his lips and set one hand underneath the proffered foot, his other hand propping against his bottom to keep him steady as he pushed him into the air. Sherlock scrambled onto the branch, pleasantly surprised at how easily John had been able to support his weight.

“Okay,” Sherlock eventually panted, the branch holding his weight without any give. He was relieved to see that the branches were relatively close together as they went higher. It would be a longer climb, considering that this was one of the thickest pines they’d come across, but the height would be the best for the job. “I’ll… start up, then.”

“Stay close to the body of the tree,” John said, though he sounded worried. Sometimes Sherlock was thankful that John’s emotions were (usually) easy to read, but now was not one of those times. “I promise that I’ll be right here. Call down if you need me.”

Right. Trying to keep his movements sure, Sherlock began the trek.

It wasn’t as difficult as it had initially seemed. It was like climbing stairs with various step heights, only you had to double check where you placed your feet. Halfway up, Sherlock stopped to catch his breath.

“Nearly there!” Sherlock called back down, wiping at his clammy forehead. The air was getting cooler as he inclined.

John called something back, but he was too far down for it to be made out too clearly. Refraining from looking down and seeing the exact distance, Sherlock pushed himself further. He was just reaching the top when he surpassed the median height of the other pines, breaking out into the open air.

“Wow,” Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp.

It was a magnificent view, the sea of Dragon’s Breath and the great mountains just to the north. The trees thinned and capped themselves in dusty white just at the foot of the mountain range ahead, proving that they didn’t have soon until their thin pants and sleeveless tunics would not be enough. Sherlock was happy to see that the forest ended not too far ahead. He was not happy to see a speck of brown, barely noticeable on the mountain face trudging low through the white. Cave bear.

With harsher weather came desperate predators. With a last, lingering look to the beautiful sight, Sherlock began his careful journey back to the ground.

“Not much farther,” he said once he reached the lowest branch, sliding down until he was dangling. John caught him easily, careful when he set him onto the ground. “I’d say we’ll be there the day after tomorrow, if we start walking now. But we need to find whatever we can muster up before we get there; I think I saw a bear up in the distance. I don’t know how much good a dagger will do.”

John drew his brows, troubled. “Like a needle pricking flesh,” he muttered, glancing down pointedly to Sherlock’s own hands. “I can make a rudimentary club out of any fallen trees, but that’s it for protection. Our best bet is probably avoiding any signs we see, rather than going straight through and hoping for the best.”

Sherlock was tugging on his mittens. “We should sharpen that dagger.”

John was hooking the satchel over his shoulder. “Find me a river rock, and I’ll get right on that.”

Sherlock quirked his lips. “I should teach you how to hold a flame,” he commented in mock-seriousness. “You’re, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? Can’t have a thirteen year old besting you in  destruction magicka.”

“Twenty, actually,” John replied easily, smile wide. “And I’m sure that I make up for all of that in combat. Maybe I should teach you how to spar, then?”

Twenty? That was much younger than Sherlock had guessed. Almost frighteningly young. But, despite himself, despite years of vague interactions and nonexistent friends and disappointed family, and despite the fact that he had only known this mysterious thief for a few days, Sherlock found himself grinning the widest, brightest smile he’s ever remembered in response.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. Because he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altmer - Just another word for High Elf, Sherlock's race. 'Mer' is usually the suffix meaning 'elf'.  
> Housecarl - The bodyguard to a person or family, though they can also act with sort of housekeeper duties. Basically whatever you tell them to do.  
> Restoration - A type of magicka that controls over life forces. More commonly used for healing, either yourself or others.  
> Destruction magicka - Like Restoration. This magicka is intended for wounding/killing enemies, more commonly seen using fire.
> 
> If anything else sounds confusing, ask me in the comments and I'll add the definition here! Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you're interested :-)
> 
> Follow my tumblr [@chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) for all things Johnlock!


	4. J - TEACH ME

It had only taken a day before John realized that Sherlock was the brother to Mycroft Holmes, the Thalmor who had ordered for the execution of General Valius just over one month ago. 

It wasn’t a difficult leap to make. Sherlock, just a boy forced by unknown reasons to become suddenly independent, liked to mutter in his sleep. John, unable to sleep most nights anyway, heard the whispers of ‘Mycroft’ and ‘Mummy’ and ‘Redbeard’ as light as the wind. John may not be able to tell what province of Summerset Isles Sherlock originated from just from his accent, but John was a soldier before he had to flee Cyrodiil. He wasn’t dim. 

Sherlock had left a family behind for whatever reason, and John knew that Mycroft was stationed somewhere in Skyrim by the Aldmeri Dominion. Sherlock was looking for his brother. And, if John had to use him to get to the Thalmor with questions he desperately needed answers to, then so be it. 

It wasn’t ‘using’ if he was completely enraptured by the boy, though. Sherlock was genuinely interesting, far beyond his years. Physically, though, he seemed younger than he actually was; by thirteen, John had a scratchy voice and the beginnings of facial hair. Sherlock, the tiny thing, still had a chiming high voice and had skin as clear and thin as parchment paper, save for a few spatterings of dark moles here and there. Was it because he was Altmer? Elves had longer lifespans than that of man, maybe he matured physically later than everyone else?

John felt a protective pang in his heart at that. The boy was so insistent of not seeming vulnerable despite his weaknesses. He was the sort of kid to do something stupid to prove his own worth; John knew the type all too well. 

Which is why, the day before they made it to the foot of the Dragontail mountains, John tossed him a stick he had vaguely whittled smooth with his dagger. 

“Spar with me,” John said, his identical one lax in his left hand. 

Sherlock’s pointed ears were flushed from the increasing cold, and his hands fumbled when he tried to catch the stick, dropping it onto the ground. “What?” He squeaked. “I-I didn’t think you were serious.” 

“Serious as the dead,” John stated, though he knew that his smile betrayed him. He schooled his expression into something believable and held up his weapon in ready position. “C’mon, then. We can eat the rest of the boar meat for lunch afterwards.”

Sherlock picked up the stick, obviously unsure. Even though he was only about a head shorter than John, the makeshift sword seemed almost comically big for him, thicker than his own arm. “I don’t even know how to hold it,” he muttered. 

“Here,” John said, propping his stick beneath his armpit to free his hands. He hesitated before touching Sherlock; he’d noticed that the boy wasn’t keen too much for physical contact. Sherlock gave a slight nod whenever he noticed John’s intent. Carefully, John arranged Sherlock’s hands and stance until it (somewhat) mirrored a proper combative ready position. 

“Now, I know two different fighting styles,” John began, readying himself and shifting his weight between both feet. “I know the Imperial-taught style, as well as Nordic. Imperial-taught is more speed-based with defensive in mind, while Nordic favors strength and precision behind each blow.” 

“Sounds like the Imperial style is better,” Sherlock replied, struggling to keep his posture correct. 

John huffed out a laugh. “Just the opposite. People in the Imperial army are taught this sort of style for a battle-like setting, where there is a great number of men helping you on each side to wear down the enemy force. Nordic style is a personal favorite of mine, better for smaller skirmishes and quick to defeat. Unfortunately, it’s rather tiring.”

“So you teach it to me,” Sherlock deadpanned, “the boy who can’t even drag a dead boar for five minutes.”

“It was a heavy boar,” John pointed out in all fairness. He inclined his head, hoping he seemed approachable. Well, as approachable as a man with a fighting stick could seem. “Try to attack me. Follow your instincts, and I’ll teach you how a Nord would fight, yeah? I promise I won’t hurt you, this is just a lesson.” 

With a withering huff, Sherlock slung his stick clumsily, and both man and boy fought until the sun was at its peak through the trees and Sherlock fell and refused to get back up. 

“Ouch,” he gasped, rubbing at his bare bicep where John had gotten in the last strike. His whole face was flushed from exertion. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.” 

John, only slightly out of breath, was kneading at his shin with a wince. “You got in a good hit,” he replied. “It was only fair.” 

“Fair,” Sherlock muttered sardonically, leaning against the trunk of a pine and attempting to catch his breath. The skin on his upper arm was darkening, and John tried unsuccessfully not to feel too bad about it. It reminded him, though, that the air was getting cooler and it would only get worse once they began ascending the mountain, their sleeveless tunics not helpful in the slightest. It was going to be a problem. 

John voiced his concerns. “I’ve seen elk droppings here and there as the trees continue to thin out,” he said. “What say you we focus our efforts on trying to find one? We need everything it can offer, namely its pelt.”  

Sherlock snorted. “Good luck. We’d need a bow for that, if any elks are willing to come within sight of us in the first place.” 

They weren’t exactly the quietest pair. “Water flows downhill,” John said finally with a shrug. “At the foot of every mountain is a lake. And where there’s a lake, there are things drinking from it. From then on, our only enemy is how long we’re willing to wait.” 

Sherlock shrugged, disinterested. “Lead the way, then.” 

At night, Sherlock was a much more harsh teacher than John, impatience and frustration blurring him at the edges. “No, John, not like that! Magicka is not a physical force, there’s no need to jerk your hand about like you’re trying to catch a fly.” 

John dropped his arm with a loud sigh, attempting to keep his anger at bay. “You’re not very good at teaching,” he grumbled. He could  _ feel  _ the magicka in his veins, like a seal stuck beneath the water’s frozen surface. It tickled and ached maddeningly.

Sherlock seemed to catch onto John’s irritation, as he mellowed a bit and reached out to grab John’s wrists, turning his palms to the sky. “Think of it like… your hands are kindling to a fire, okay? You don’t  _ create  _ the flame, it just comes naturally whenever you make a spark.” Sherlock alit a tiny lick of fire upon his index finger, like a candle. “Can you feel the magicka, John?” 

John hummed, closing his eyes to try and follow the pull of his blood. When he opened them, Sherlock was passing the fire into his hands, where it flickered brighter on its own accord. Sherlock removed his hand, and the flame stayed. 

The power to it was potent. “Brilliant,” John breathed, the vibrations at his fingertips unlike anything he’d ever felt before. After a moment, however, the fire became increasingly difficult to fuel so he let it flicker out into nothing. The feeling lingered, though, running deliciously beneath his skin.

“I take it back,” John sighed, leaning back by the makeshift firepit with the actual flame. “You’re a good teacher, I’ve never been able to muster up anything more than a spark.” 

Sherlock tried to hide it, but John saw his slight smile. “You have a lot of potential,” he murmured. He then leaned down opposite, warming his feet next to the fire. “Sparring today had its advantages, as well,” he admitted. “It was… fun.” 

He said it as though fun was a foreign concept to him. John nudged his foot with his own, flashing the boy a smile. “I won’t let you get a hit in tomorrow, then.” 

Sherlock snorted, and then pulled his foot away so he could curl down to sleep. “Like you could stop me,” he replied, hiding his smile into the ground. 

 

*** * ***

 

Finally, around lunchtime during the following day, luck was on their side as they broke free of the vestiges of the forest. A wide lake sat just before the incline of the foremost mountain, and just ahead was a small family of elk. 

John quite literally felt his pupils dilate when he saw the great buck, its antlers as wide as Sherlock was tall and its back up to John’s shoulders. Gods, but that’s got to be the largest elk he’d ever seen. “That one,” he whispered to the boy beside him. If they played their cards right, the meat from the buck alone could last them for weeks. 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, probably thinking of a way towards the touchy beasts. John sure was trying to solve that problem himself. “I agree,” Sherlock finally murmured. “Any ideas?”

“A bad one,” John said, brandishing his dagger and handing Sherlock his satchel. “I’m going to sprint towards them and use the element of surprise.”

“What?” Sherlock hissed. “That’s an awful idea.” 

But John was already running, trying to move fast in his worn-in boots and as indiscreet as he could, initially. The half-dozen or so elk didn’t notice immediately, but their reflexes were instinctive once they spotted the two-legged maniac headed that way. John wasn’t able to get The Buck, but he tackled another, smaller elk and slit its throat in a quick jerk while the others fled. It was a buck, as well, and its antlers weren’t insignificant. 

When Sherlock walked up, he looked unimpressed. “That wouldn’t work again if you tried it in a thousand years.”

“Doesn’t matter,” John panted, rearranging the dead elk until gravity was helping it bleed out into the mud of the banks. “It worked now, that’s all I needed. But... didn’t that look impressive?” 

Sherlock quirked his lips. “I’m not saying it  _ didn’t… _ ”

John chuckled. He squinted out to the lake, the sun reflecting near-painfully on the water’s surface. Ahead of that, the mountains sloped up dramatically. “See if you can catch any fish,” John commented, turning back to eye Sherlock’s self-proclaimed ‘walking stick’. It was the stick he used for sparring, but from boredom he had whittled one side into a slight spear. “You said you saw a bear earlier? There has to be some salmon, then, and we could do with the extra meat.”

Sherlock made to protest, but then something curious alighted behind his eyes, looking out to the lake with a renewed fervor. The beginnings of a smile were rising from the idea.  _ Got him.  _ “I’ll see what I can do,” he said offhandedly, already turning to walk parallel to the water’s edge.

“Don’t get your boots wet!” John called, tucking his hands underneath the still-warm buck to thaw his fingers. “They’ll freeze to your feet in this weather.”

Sherlock grunted back in response, already interested in his mission. John huffed out a laugh and got to work. 

By the time the buck was skinned and most of the meat salvaged, Sherlock returned, slightly wet with two hunks of dark shell tucked under each arm and a salmon in one of his hands. John immediately laughed in delight, reaching out for one of the shells. 

“Mudcrab,” he practically moaned, testing the harsh resistance of the crustacean. It was bigger than his head, and its claws were the size of his hands. “Oh, god, this is going to be a good lunch.” 

“And dinner,” Sherlock piped up proudly, face slightly pink from the cold. He dropped the other crab and the fish down at John’s feet, whooshing out a breath and standing back up to narrow his eyes thoughtfully out to the mountains. John had become well-acquainted with that look; it was his  _ thinking  _ look. 

“What is it?” asked John, always happy to hear that brilliant mind work. “Will your route work?” 

Sherlock was biting at his lip, brows pursed. “I think I found another route to use,” he said, eyes trained somewhere near the top of the peak. At John’s confusion, Sherlock slid up until they were shoulder-to-shoulder and pointed somewhere slightly off to the right, just near a small cluster of bush peeking out from the snow on the mountain face. There was a glint of gold, and John surged forward and tilted his head in confusion mixed with curiosity, the sight completely unexpected. 

“Is that…?” 

“I don’t think we have to climb the mountains,” Sherlock said, turning to look at John with his eyes positively alight. “We just need to go  _ through  _ them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thalmor - The group of High Elves that created the Aldmeri Dominion, racist towards man and convinced that they're the superior race.  
> Mudcrab - Definitely self-explanatory! Huge crabs that live in the mud around water, very aggressive but its chitin (claw meat) is useful. In this, I'm using it as food. 
> 
> If anything else sounds confusing, ask me in the comments and I'll add the definition here! Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you're interested :-)
> 
> Follow my tumblr [@chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) for all things Johnlock!


	5. S - UP THE SUMMIT

The nights were cold, far colder than Sherlock had ever experienced before. 

The days weren’t much better. There were natural pathways that zigged and zagged up the mountain, obviously well-used before but not for many years. As they inclined, the snow thickened and fell in light flakes. Around the fur-lined boots they wore, their feet stayed dry but the bite of the bitter chill still cut straight through the leather. John didn’t seem as bothered. 

“Here, this will be your job,” John said as they took a break from walking, handing over the pelt from the buck he had killed. It was heavy, but the fur was warmed nicely from John’s body heat. “You need it much more than I do. Plus, you need to start earning your keep, yeah?”

His smile was kind as he shrugged the pelt over Sherlock’s shoulders himself. Sherlock found that, the grand majority of the time, John could be described as ‘kind’. 

It was an unnerving experience. Sherlock was no martyr; he was not abused as a child, nor did he have a tragic past. Well, the last one was (quite abruptly) true, but otherwise, no. Altmer culture was almost aggressively formal, where hugs and kisses and what-have-you were rare in the highest form and frowned heavily upon. Compassion on Summerset Isles was clinical and measured; affection was a light brush of fingers, like a loose handshake. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, just something that Sherlock had never gotten the hang of, him having been a hands-on babe and child that was, frankly, abhorrent to his race. 

So why was Sherlock so warmed whenever John smiled at him, or complimented him, or patted him on the shoulder? It wasn’t in his background to be flattered. It wasn’t even in his  _ biology.  _

“Hey,” John said gently, shaking him out of his thoughts. He knocked Sherlock’s jaw lightly with his knuckles, eyes warm. “Come on back. What were you thinking about up there?” 

John was touching him more. Initially difficult to get used to, it was wholly welcomed now, much more comforting than the glorified handshake his mother would give him whenever he did something right. “Nothing,” he muttered, tightening the pelt around his body even more. He eyed John’s bare arms, save for the make-do mittens Sherlock had sewn. “What about you? Aren’t you cold?” 

John shrugged, seemingly unbothered as he began to hike once more. “I’m a Nord,” he said, breath fogging in the air. “My father told me once that Nords are naturally resistant to the cold. I’ll be fine.” 

That’s the first Sherlock had heard of John talk about his family, let alone his past. At John’s drawn-in expression, though, Sherlock knew not to push too much and instead nodded, once. “Alright,” he replied. He blinked up past the snowflakes, trying to see how close they were to the golden door. “We might be able to make it to the entrance tonight, if we eat a quick lunch.”

Taking the hint, John upped his pace so they were at their natural, companionable hiking speed. “You’ve got it,” he said, helping Sherlock up over a tricky boulder on the path. “Explain to me again why we are going to open a mysterious door located on a mountain? Arguably the worst place to put a door?” 

Sherlock huffed out a breath, curling his fingers into the fur around his collar to keep as insulated as possible. “I thought I was very thorough explaining it the other day.” 

“You thought wrong,” John replied immediately, kicking the deeper snow out of Sherlock’s path. “Try to explain it better.” 

Sherlock groaned, but otherwise complied. “Fine. Do you remember what I said about the Dwemer?”

Silence.

“Of course not,” Sherlock lamented, eyes closing in exasperation. “Yes, alright. You’ve at least heard of the Dwemer before, though, I hope?” 

“Course,” John said, almost offended at the question. “I know that they’re the dwarves who died out mysteriously centuries ago, though they were very intelligent and liked to build their machinery and innovations and stuff inside of mountains and underground.” 

So many things wrong with that description. “I’m sure that’s as good as I’m going to get,” Sherlock sighed. “ _ Anyway,  _ this is one of the mountains they’ve built into, as their former capital is now a populated city in Skyrim just on the other side. Doors made of gold built into rock is a telltale sign of the Dwemer, so it’s safe to say that this entrance will take us to the city.”

John didn’t seem convinced. “If I remember correctly, the Dwemer ruins are generally frowned upon for exploring, as their protections are still fully functional. You know, poison darts if you step on a panel, machines with the sole purpose of killing intruders, the works.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to watch our steps, won’t we?” 

John groaned out into the sky. “Divines help us.”

 

*** * ***

 

They made it to the door at nightfall, the path turning into something man-made and easy to walk the closer they got. For the past several nights they would find a sturdy, isolated outcrop of rock to sleep on with a fire between them, settling outside of the natural route for at least some protection. Tonight, though, new plans would have to be made. 

“So,” John stated, eyeing the ornate golden doors with obvious trepidation. “Do we just… walk in?” 

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snapped, though he was worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. “We should… sleep first. Any traps are usually just past the entrances, and we should probably be ready for that.”

“Right,” John replied, eyes still trained on the door with a frown. “Yes. Right. We should probably set up camp, then.” 

“Here is fine,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the small clearing in front of the mountain’s entrance. It was positively freezing, and even through the pelt around his shoulders he was shaking like a leaf. “We’ll be close to shelter if the need arises.”

John nodded, reaching into his satchel for a handful of dried leaves he had collected back in Dragon’s Breath. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, brows drawn, and a spark caught onto the tinder from his improving magicka. Sherlock made a noise of approval, and John quirked his lips sheepishly, but the smile fell whenever he finished setting up the firepit beside them. He looked unsure. 

“Sherlock…” he began, glancing away to study a stray bush alongside the path as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. That piqued Sherlock’s interest. “It’s getting to be rather cold, you know.” 

“Mmhm,” Sherlock hummed slowly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the Nord. What was he getting at?

“I’m even starting to feel it,” John continued, still somewhat awkward. “And, well, you’ve been shivering the past few days we’ve been climbing. So, well, we might have to make some… adjustments.”

Sherlock blinked, once. 

John was watching him expectantly. When Sherlock didn’t seem to understand, though, he sighed heavily through his nose and took a step closer, trying to convey his (puzzling) thoughts through purposeful eye contact.

“I mean,” he said insistently, “That we should probably sleep together. To conserve heat.”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Sherlock blinked again, then twice, then three times until he was simply just fluttering his eyelashes. He felt embarrassing heat in his cheeks. 

Companionable touches between them were fine, easy to accept even though it went behind everything Sherlock had previously believed. And, yes,  _ definitely  _ welcomed, giving Sherlock warmth in his stomach at the outright affection. 

But prolonged contact might be an issue, Sherlock already feeling himself crawl out of his skin at the thought. Not that John had done anything to warrant this unease, but it was just… It was overwhelming, having someone put this much attention on him.  _ Stop being a child.  _ This was about sharing body heat and surviving, not about Sherlock being uncomfortable. 

John was watching him with wary eyes, as if he was wounded. Wait, why was he upset?”

“I’m not going to… Sherlock, this is just about…” John was closing in, words a bite defensive as he crossed his arms. He had misinterpreted Sherlock’s silence. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but. I wouldn’t… take advantage of you, Sherlock.”

_ “Gods no!” _ Sherlock blurted, surging forward. Idiot, idiot! “I know that! I do! I just… I’m not used to… touching. At all. Altmers don’t really show much… physical… regard?” 

Sherlock was almost towards stuttering, but it was worth it to see John’s face open from its previous ailment, as if shrugging a weight off of his shoulders. He gave Sherlock a relieved smile. “I see. Yeah. I know that, I do. Nords are quite the opposite, though, so I hope I haven’t been offending you all this time.” 

But Sherlock was already shaking his head. “No, no. It’s… nice, sometimes.” Were his ears as red as they felt?

John smiled, warm despite the chill. Behind him, there was the sound of the wind cracking against the cliffs. “I’m glad, then.”

Sherlock folded further into the pelt, studying John from beneath the little protection it offered. Any number of other people could have been in that bandit prison, maybe a more murderous Nord or a shifty Argonian. Quote literally anybody else but the strange man in front of him who seemed to care about Sherlock’s wellbeing more than his own. He was the most interesting man Sherlock had ever come to know. 

A shadow rose above John, dark eyes glittering from the fire. 

Sherlock noticed it too late. “ _ John!”  _

A guttural roar, and a muddy claw swiped John into the mountainside before he could turn, hitting his side against the rocks with a sickening crack. Sherlock cried out in alarm, going to rush to his side, but the beast was on its hind legs between them, sniffing the air and matted in filthy brown fur. Its sharp teeth were a grotesque yellow. 

Cave bear. 

“Sherlock,” John groaned, shrugging up and using the mountain as support. When he fully took in the scene, a bear the size of a horse looking blindly around for prey, his eyes widened. He glanced at Sherlock, once, and then yelled, “Here! Over here, you stupid beast!” 

“John!” Sherlock shouted, frozen where he stood. The bear swung around to John’s direction, and with a wheezing growl it rushed towards him and swiped him again. Sherlock slid into action, fire erupting from both of his hands as he desperately searched his mind for a solution.

John was trying to fight back to no avail, his dagger back by the firepit. “No, Sherlock!” He managed, getting in a punch to the bear’s snout. He looked almost feral in his crazed swings, though it might as well have been a moth knocking against glass. “RUN!”

Sherlock ran to the pathway they had come up from, nearly slipping in his haste. He whipped around to face the scene, heart turning to ice when he saw the dark splatters of blood on the ground. Mustering up his magicka, Sherlock cupped his hands together and forced out a burst of flames to singe the beast. It yowled, releasing John from its attack and turning its clunky body towards Sherlock. 

“HEY!” Sherlock screamed, extinguishing the fire and waving his arms. “LEAVE HIM ALONE!” 

“Sh… Sherlock,” John groaned, but the bear was already dropping to its forelegs and following its instincts in a run. Adrenaline rushing potently through his veins, Sherlock ducked around at the last minute and ran to John’s prone body, covered in blood but otherwise intact. 

“John, the door! We need to get inside of the door!” 

He helped him stand, and the bear was already turning. John leaned on him heavily, slicked with blood, but they pushed towards the golden entrance and Sherlock tried to open it from the handles, throwing his shoulders into the effort. 

It wouldn’t budge. The bear howled in an desperate, primal roar. “Sherlock,” John whispered. 

It was frozen. Sherlock blasted it with fire, once, cracking the thin layer of ice off of the hinges. It worked, thank the Divines. He swung the heavy panel just enough for them to slide through into the utter darkness. 

Behind them, the bear pounded at the entrance, closing the door completely.

The sound of breaths, John wheezing horribly into the silence. Sherlock hurriedly alit his hands to see the damage, breath speeding up at the horrific sight. There was red everywhere, skin raw from scratches and clothing in tatters, dyed an almost black from the blood. There wasn’t anything disfiguring, only deep caverns of gaping scratches along his abdomen and legs, the foremost one in deep lacerations on his right thigh. “Rip off a piece of the pelt and press it against my thigh,” John muttered, tearing Sherlock out of his disbelieving scrutiny. 

Sherlock blinked up at him, near hyperventilation. He hadn’t even realized he still had the pelt around his shoulders. “What? Why?” 

John licked the blood from his lips, eyes nearly closed. “Because otherwise, I am going to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwemer - Long-dead race of elves, very technologically advanced and intelligent. Their disappearance, many years ago, remains a mystery.   
> Argonian - The race from Black Marsh, looking like humanoid lizards. Neither 'man' nor 'mer', but a completely different category. 
> 
> If anything else sounds confusing, ask me in the comments and I'll add the definition here! Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you're interested :-)
> 
> Follow my tumblr [@chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) for all things Johnlock!


End file.
